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 Everett True

The return of Everett True | 89. The Smith Street Band

The return of Everett True | 89. The Smith Street Band
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This one goes out to my 21-year-old self, fucked up on alcohol.

This one goes out to my 31-year-old self, confused and scared on the streets of San Francisco.

This one goes out to Stephen Sweet, for spending the night awake in a chair jammed against the hotel room doorknob.

This one goes out to Jake Cleland, for keeping the faith burning.

This one goes out to my 40-year-old self, ripping car ariels off and strewn into the street.

This one goes out to my bolshie 29-year-old self, oblivious and arguing.

This one goes out to anyone who ever felt depressed.

This one goes out to anyone who believes in the healing power of music… no, doesn’t even believe in it… knows that that music is all there is to die for.

This one goes out to my 53-year-old self shouting futilely into the wind.

This one goes out to my 12-year-old self, arm held up high on my back.

This one goes out to the car roofs of Boston, forever dented by our dancing.

This one goes out to my bosom friends, Jack and Maker’s and Thunderbird and Polish vodka.

This one goes out to the wall in Tom Hazelmyer’s Minneapolis house.

This one goes out to anyone who’s ever wanted to be part of a gang, but with no rules, no sorting hats.

This one goes out to Kat Bjelland.

This one goes out to anyone who’s been lost in music, down the front and thrashing uncontrollably.

This one is for Kristen.

This one goes out to Melbourne, and Seattle, and Brighton, and Edinburgh, and Karlsruhe, and London, and Dunedin, and Novosibirsk, and Olympia, and Boston, and Chicago, and all those other cities I sometimes miss desparately.

I sometimes don’t want to live, but I’ve never wanted to die.

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